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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268193">Crash</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai'>a_little_chai</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Birthday Party, Broken Bones, But also, Everyone's Drunk, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Now a second chapter!, One Shot, Schizophrenia, Truth or Dare, shenanigans ensue, there is some fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:14:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason Reid's mom always called him Crash - he had a tendency to get hurt. Broken bones, bruises that laced up his back. But she didn't know that it was her giving him the bruises, her breaking his bones. And if Reid had his way, she would never know. </p><p>AKA: It's Emily's birthday party, and the whole team is playing a drunken game of truth or dare. Spencer is not one for telling the truth, especially about his childhood. Hotch, however, confronts him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid &amp; The BAU Team</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>559</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>General Manager at the Wendy’s in Fairbanks</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Crash</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey! Thanks for clicking. If you have any concerns about warnings/triggers, I suggest you hop on down to the end note before reading. There's a list down there (with no spoilers). </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Truth or dare?" </p><p> </p><p>Reid looked around the assembled agents. The infamous BAU team was spread out in Rossi's expansive living room, and all different stages of drunk. Emily's birthday celebration had started out with cake and presents, and ended with a drinking game that left Morgan flirting with him and JJ somehow laid out on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Some days he was happy alcohol didn't agree with him. </p><p> </p><p>"Truth." </p><p> </p><p>"Dammit!" Garcia slurred. "I had the perfect dare picked out for you, my white chocolate prince."</p><p> </p><p>Relief flooded through him. A normal Garcia was malicious and vaguely voyeuristic enough; he did <i>not</i> want to know what twisted thing a drunk Garcia could think of. </p><p> </p><p>"Shuddup, 's my turn." Emily's hair had long started to escape the ponytail it'd been put in. A dare involving a box of dye found under Rossi's bathroom cabinet had - besides causing the old Italian to vehemently deny he had ever used it - caused her brown locks to be painted black. The remenants of the dye was smeared across her forehead. No one had mentioned it. "Tell me... have you ever broken any bones?" </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, c'mon Prentiss, we have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to ask pretty boy anything, and that's the best you can do?!" Morgan asked incredulously. For a man who could normally hold his liquor, Morgan's cheeks were surprisingly red. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey, you already asked the 'who do you have a crush on' and 'are you a virigin.' Don't be pissin' on my questions." The words were accompanied by so much slurring that Reid could only sit there and wonder how any of them were still conscious. The average adult could consume twelve units of alcohol before secondary symptoms of poisoning begin, but Rossi<i> had </i>poured three whole rum bottles into the punch, and everyone, him excluded, had helped themselves to a couple of glasses already. </p><p> </p><p>"No, never." After everything that'd happened to him in his five years as an agent, somehow he'd managed to escape everything but a few cracks and stress fractures. </p><p> </p><p>Before that... </p><p> </p><p>The team didn't need to know. </p><p> </p><p>"Wha' about tha... that arm thingy." Garcia piped up. "It's in your med... medical records. Not tha' I, your beautiful tech goddess, ever wen' through <i>any</i> of your personal records."</p><p> </p><p>"Ooooh, Spence, caught in a lie." JJ said, punching him lightly in the shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>He ignored her, desperately trying to hide how his breathing picked up and his heart started racing a mile a minute. <i>Deflect, cover it up, don't let them find out. Whatever you do, don't let them find out. </i></p><p> </p><p>It was a mantra he'd been repeating since he was ten and evading the occasional worried teacher and guidance counselor. </p><p> </p><p>"I-I..." </p><p> </p><p>"Spill, kid!" </p><p> </p><p>The bright lights of the living room seemed to flash, his head pounding now in time with his heart. Hands shook, and he desperately clasped them in his lap. His clothes were too tight, the fabric squeezing and rubbing and <i>itching - </i></p><p> </p><p>No. No, no, no, no, he was not going to panic. Not in front of all his colleagues - his friends. They may be shitfaced drunk, but they were still profilers. </p><p> </p><p>And they can't find out. </p><p> </p><p>"It's... It's really nothing - " He tried, but was quickly cut off. </p><p> </p><p>"Reid," Hotch was never one to drink, but the glass of punch he had certainly seemed to have been affecting him, if the goofy half-smile that'd been on his face for the entire night was anything to go by. Now, though, he seemed to be the only one with any seriousness in his eyes. "Tell us."</p><p> </p><p>Seeing that he wasn't going to get out of this without answering, he took a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>"I was eleven..."</p><p> </p><p>Before his sentence was even finished, the memories swallowed him whole.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>He closed the door gently behind him, wincing at the soft click that it made when the latch caught. His eyes slowly started adjusting from the light of a fall afternoon in Vegas to the darkness in a house with covered windows and no electricity. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>The meager amount of money he got from tutoring and doing homework for the football players and... more unsavory things was barely enough to get two meals a day worth of food and pay the mortgage. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>Electricity wasn't a necessity. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>His breath still picked up, a crawling feeling working its way down his arms, across his back. He hated the dark. Bad things always happened in the dark. The dark meant Dad's belt. The dark meant Mom's delusions. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>A loud crash came from upstairs, the sound of something (someone) falling to the floor. Dread seeped its way into his heart as he dropped his book bag and ran quickly to the stairs. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>He shouldn't have left Mom alone, not today. She'd been nearly catatonic all morning, barely there, a clear sign that an episode was fast approaching. But he'd gone to school anyways, because Mr. Clinton said they were going to start differential equations in Calculous today. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>Stupid. Irresponsible. Selfish. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>He reached the bedroom door, knocking gently. Soft murmuring made its way through the wood, too low for him to actually decipher. But Mom only ever talks to herself when she's having a full-blown episode - when she's not actually talking to herself, but whatever delusions have wormed their way into her mind. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>He pushed the door open. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>The covers on the bed were messy, half off. A mirror lay shattered on the ground, its glass in shards along the carpet. And there was Mom, wearing nothing more than a robe, cutting deep into her arm in frantic strokes, blood dripping onto the floor and smearing all along her skin - </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>"Stop!" He screamed, though the words were barely more than a whisper. He ran forwards, tripping over tangled sheets and discarded clothes. "Mom, stop!" </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>She didn't stop, though. She just kept cutting, and cutting, and - </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>His hand grabbed the mirror shard, slicing his own palm open as he tried desperately to get it out of her grasp. Diana just shoved him, hard. He landed half out of the room, all the breath knocked out of him. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>"Spy! Get it out of me, traitor!" She screeched, standing above him and waving the shard like it was a knife. He scrambled backwards, wincing when his bruising back hit the wall. Breaths came in short gasps, short gasps that did nothing to fill his lungs. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>Mom (this isn't his mom, not now, not when she's like this) pulled him up by the shirt collar. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>"Mom, it's Spencer! Please, Mom, it's not real!" He cried, but the words did nothing. Nothing to stop whatever delusion was in his Mom's mind. Nothing to stop her from seeing an evil spy instead of her own son. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>And nothing to stop her from pushing him away, and down the long staircase. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>He barely felt the agonizing pain in his arm before the whole world turned black.</i>
</p>
<hr/><p>"Kid?" </p><p> </p><p>"Spence?" </p><p> </p><p>"I think you broke him, Hotch."</p><p> </p><p>The world flooded back, the memory falling from his mind as quickly as it had appeared. Everyone was staring at him, though no one seemed particularly concerned. </p><p> </p><p>"We lost ya there for a second, pretty boy." Morgan said, a smile gracing his features. "Didn't think you could get out of answering that easily, did you?" </p><p> </p><p>He forced himself to smile, to allow a small laugh past his lips. He was SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, twenty-seven years old. Not Spencer Reid, the scared eleven year old boy with a deadbeat dad and a schizophrenic mom. </p><p> </p><p>He needed to remember that. </p><p> </p><p>"I was eleven, and I was... studying, for my math test the next day, so I was reading. And walking. And... you all know how clumsy I am." He looked around at the team, saw smiles on all their faces. It was harder and harder to keep the act up, but he forced his lips to stay up, the tears in his eyes to stay away. "I fell down the stairs and broke my humerus in two places. My, uh, my mom called me Crash for years after."</p><p> </p><p>Everyone laughed. Really laughed. His sounded fake and hollow in comparison. </p><p> </p><p>"Only the genius could manage to break his arm studying." Emily slurred, rolling her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>JJ drunkenly leaned against his shoulder, ruffling his hair. He tried to suppress the shiver that her touch caused. "Big nerd."</p><p> </p><p>Garcia stood, wavering on her heels. "My dark chocolate adonis, truth, or do you dare to know what I shall force you to do." She laughed as some of the color drained out of Morgan's face. </p><p> </p><p>Satisfied that the attention was off him, Spencer let his eyes close. He tuned out the sounds of his friends, the warmth of JJ against his side. Focused on keeping his breathing steady, his hands from shaking. Focused on not tracing the thin scar across his palm. </p><p> </p><p>No one noticed when he didn't laugh for the rest of the game. </p><p> </p><p>No one noticed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Polaris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had a few people ask me for a second chapter so... here it is! I hope this provides a bit more comfort to balance out all the Reid!whump. </p><p>(The same warnings from chapter one still apply)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was three a.m. when everyone finally fell asleep. Rossi's seemingly-antique grandfather clock rang three times, a short song, before falling silent. Reid could hear the second hand moving, the gears and mechanisms slowly counting the minutes, laying out the hours. </p><p>The game of truth or dare had continued for a while, but died out around the time the second punch bowl was drained. </p><p>He glanced around the room, taking in the sleeping faces of the team. JJ had a piece of hair in her mouth. Morgan was snoring softly. They all looked so... <i>unguarded.</i> Peaceful. </p><p>His hands were still shaking. </p><p>They hadn't stopped even once everyone was asleep, tiny tremors running through them. His eyes fell to his palm, the small silvery scar that laced it. So thin, so indistinguishable, that sometimes he wondered if it hadn't disappeared years ago and the only reason he could still see it was because he remembered the startling red line that'd been drawn there when he was eleven. </p><p>The memories started coming back, laying in threatening dots of black in the corner of his vision. Breaths came in faster, muscles tightened, world spinning more and more - </p><p>He stood, quickly, ignoring the rush of dizziness and the numbness in his legs. He couldn't... he couldn't just sit and think, mind running in circles again and again, any longer. </p><p>Without a thought, he walked out onto house's small porch. </p><p>It was late fall. The weather was just starting to turn cold. His thin sweater did little to keep our the biting wind. But the smell of the woods, the clean atmosphere that was so rare in the city, made his head just a bit clearer. Made the memories stay just a bit further away. </p><p>He looked up. </p><p>The light pollution was practically nothing here. He could see every star, twinkling gently in the night sky. His eyes tracked to Polaris. It had never guided him before - why would it now? </p><p>He closed his eyes. </p><p>Breathed. </p><p>Felt his tense limbs relax, slowly. </p><p>He stood there for a long while, shivering slightly in the wind. </p><p>"Reid?" </p><p>Startled, he whirled around, only to see Hotch standing in the doorway. The lights from the living room floated down onto the deck. It cast a warm glow, like a beautiful yellow aura that just barely brushed him, painting a stoic yet soft expression across Hotch's face.</p><p>"I... I thought you were sleeping." He whispered, squinting at the light. Hotch quickly closed the door, leaving them in the glow of the stars and moon. </p><p>"I was." </p><p>"Oh." </p><p>Exhaustion was pulling at his eyelids, his thoughts refused to string themselves together completely. The events of the night were creeping up on him, and more than anything he just wanted to fall asleep out here, away from his twisting thoughts, alone. </p><p>Hotch, apparently, had other plans.</p><p>"We need to talk." </p><p>He took a slow breath. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do. </p><p>"Please, Hotch, it's really late."</p><p>His boss was quiet for a minute. He just kept looking at the stars, breathing in the cool fresh air. </p><p>"I was the first one Gideon told, when he met you."</p><p>"... you were?"</p><p>He turned. The smallest of smiles crossed Hotch's face, gone as quick as it appeared. "He walked into my office and just put your file in front of me. If it had been anyone else, I would've thought he was joking."</p><p>A smile tugged at his own lips; the idea of Gideon being anything like that was enough. </p><p>"Your personal file was in there too." The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, cold, icy fear spreading through his veins. "Your medical file, Spencer."</p><p>He let his eyes close. Ignored the rising panic in his throat. "You know, then."</p><p>"A twenty year old with a mentally ill mother, no signs of a father, and a medical history seventeen pages long - it wasn't hard to jump to the right conclusions." Hotch's voice didn't waver, but it did soften. "You didn't fall down those stairs studying, did you?" </p><p>The panic wouldn't stay away. His finger started tapping, tapping some rhythm just to move. Just to let the rising emotions out in some way that wasn't screaming. </p><p>The next word came out as a whisper. </p><p>"No." </p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>Memories, memories of all the times he'd showed up to school with a new cast, a new bruise. Being sat down in the counselor's office, asked if everything was alright at home, if he was okay. Knowing that if he said anything, if he let the facade of the perfect genius child drop for even an instant, everything would change. </p><p>But Hotch wasn't one of those people. And, right now... right now, he almost wanted everything to change. </p><p>He barely breathed the damning words. </p><p>"She was cutting herself. She'd broken a mirror and was digging in her arm. There was s-so much blood. I... I tried to stop her. I should've been more careful, I should've..."</p><p>"She pushed you."</p><p>Hotch's voice had no surprise, no judgment. Nothing but the faintest tremor no one but him would have picked up. </p><p>Another breeze blowed past them, and he shivered.</p><p>"... it wasn't her fault." </p><p>Even as his eyes opened again, the black around his vision threatened to swarm in. Visions, of all the times he'd been hurt, he'd been scared, appeared just at the edge - </p><p>A hand touched his arm and he flinched. </p><p>"Don't - don't touch me." The words seemed far too loud in the still night. The hand retreated. </p><p>"It's okay, Spencer. Breathe." Hearing Hotch say his first name made him come back to reality a bit. </p><p>Hotch never said his first name. </p><p>"Why didn't you say something?" Tears slowly filled his eyes, but he blinked them away. "I've known you for five years, Hotch. If you knew, why didn't you ask me before?" </p><p>
  <i>Why didn't you help me when I needed someone there? Why didn't you help me? </i>
</p><p>He turned, taking in the still neutral expression on Hotch's face. But he noticed something else - the barest of shaking in his shoulders. </p><p>And, with slow, measured movements, Hotch drew up his shirt sleeve. Revealing small bits of puckered skin, a light pink. Angry marks bitten deep into his forearm. </p><p>Scars. Burn scars. </p><p><i>Cigarette</i> burn scars. He'd seen enough of them on bodies to know. </p><p>And a horrible kind of understanding formed in his mind. </p><p>"Because I understand." Hotch pushed his sleeve back down, keeping a hand wrapped tightly around the cuff. "Because I know what it's like to be hurt by someone you love, someone you trust, who's supposed to protect you. And I've seen how hard you try to cover it up when you're around us. How you suppress the flinches when someone moves too fast, how you always track a way to leave a room the moment you enter it. I knew you didn't want your past brought up, so I didn't say anything."</p><p>His eyes hadn't moved from Hotch's hand. From the tiny bit of cloth around his wrist that covered so much. </p><p>"Who?"</p><p>Glancing up at Hotch's face, he saw the barest of grimaces there, like a flash before it disappeared. </p><p>"My father."</p><p>The words floated to him, slowly being understood. Slowly realizing the revelation that was being shown to him. </p><p>He'd never realized. He'd never even suspected... </p><p>"I didn't know." </p><p>"I didn't want you to know."</p><p>He couldn't help the tear that fell, the tear he quickly swiped away. "Why are you doing this, Hotch? It's been five years and you've never... why tonight?" </p><p>With a slow, tentative hand, Hotch reached out and gently grabbed his shoulder. A shiver went through him, but he didn't force the hand off. </p><p>"I saw your face, when Garcia brought up your arm. The others were too drunk to notice, but you tensed. Your breathing got faster, your hands were shaking. I've had enough panic attacks to know you were on the edge of one." Before he could process the idea of Hotch panicking, the man continued. "You've never had anyone to talk to about this, have you?"</p><p>Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Hotch's gaze. "They would've put me in the system and taken her away. It... it was better to be in pain than let that happen."</p><p>How many times, had he laid in bed with tears streaming down his face thinking that? How many times had he been sitting in that counselor's chair, wanting nothing more than to scream or cry or do something, anything, besides pretend half his ribs weren't cracked or broken? </p><p>Pretend he was <i>happy</i>, one more fucking time? </p><p>"You don't have to do that anymore. You don't have to be in pain anymore. Your mom's safe. <i>You're</i> safe." Hotch smiled at him, gently, and, with a care so unlike him, almost brotherly, he brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead. "It's okay to cry, Spencer." </p><p>He hadn't noticed the tears already streaming down his face. </p><p>But he didn't wipe them away. </p><p>After a long moment, he turned away from Hotch. The man didn't say anything, just kept his steadying hand on his shoulder. Looking up at the night sky, his eyes tracked to Polaris again. </p><p>Tonight, he finally felt it might guide him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Warnings:</b><br/>Depictions of child abuse<br/>Depictions of schizophrenia and mental illness as it is shown in canon<br/>Graphic self-harming behaviors<br/>Alcohol use<br/>Mild language</p><p>Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please take a moment and leave a comment or kudo. They're always greatly appreciated!</p><div class="center">
  <p>   <b>You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.</b><br/></p>
</div></blockquote></div></div>
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